One Station Away

by Olaf Olafsson

  “I would look into it if I were you,” I said, trying to wrap up the conversation.

  “But you got the flyer?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you know there’s a twenty-five percent discount if you order the luxury edition.”

  “The luxury edition?”

  “The next lot of CDs are coming out in a special luxury edition.”

  I told him I had noticed the special discount.

  “Rachmaninoff, Scarlatti, Mendelssohn, Chopin, Mussorgsky, Saint-Saëns, Schumann. And I can tell you one thing, Magnus. Margaret is fabulous. She’s going to take the music world by storm.”

  I was now late for the meeting.

  “Say hello from me,” I said.

  “Don’t you want to speak to her?”

  “I’ll call back later. People are waiting for me.”

  “Of course.”

  Silence.

  “Well, I’ll call again soon.”

  “I’ll tell her,” he said. “Good-bye.”

  I sat still listening to the silence after he had hung up. It should have come as no surprise to me that I felt as if somehow I had wronged them. It has always been like that.

  Chapter 28

  The software had teething problems, but at last the programmers told us it was ready. They still had to add a few finishing touches, they said, but insisted that wouldn’t be an issue. Simone remained skeptical from experience and grilled them about it, while Anthony and I started preparing for the tests. Fortunately, she concluded that although we might encounter a few momentary glitches, there was nothing to worry about. Having already decided to go ahead regardless, I was relieved not to have to override her.

  I felt impatient, but tried not to let it show. When we had run the tests on the two patients from Boston, I had limited energy and interest, to the point where I had to force myself to go to the hospital in the mornings and would leave work early, sometimes taking the four o’clock train. But now I couldn’t wait to get started and had been carefully preparing my conversation with the patient, typing the questions on my computer and instantly translating them into Spanish since we expected that English might not be her first language. Better safe than sorry, I told myself, and began practicing my pronunciation—alone at first and then with Maria, the Mexican nurse who had helped me before. I was upbeat when talking to Simone and Anthony and praised the programmers for their excellent work.

  I sat with her for a while the evening before the tests began. Simone and Anthony had gone home as we had an early start the next day. I explained to her what was going to happen, what the tests entailed, and told her not to worry but to try her best to concentrate, although I knew that wouldn’t be easy. Possibly I was more formal than usual, and so I felt the need to take her hand.

  I stroked it gently. It reminded me of Malena’s hands, long and slender. I held it longer than I intended and when I left it was already dark.

  I slept little and by seven o’clock I was already at the hospital. Simone and Anthony arrived shortly afterward, and the programmers and technicians showed up around eight. We were all enthusiastic but anxious at the same time, and when the nurses finally wheeled in the patient, a silence descended upon the group. Then Anthony cleared his throat and we all settled resolutely to work.

  As usual, it took a while to get the patient into the MRI scanner. The opening is small and the tube from the ventilator has to be properly accommodated to avoid any mishaps. In the end everything went well, and when I took my place by the microphone with the questionnaire I had printed out the day before, I felt nothing would stand in our way. I watched Simone and Anthony sitting side by side in front of the computer screen, comparing notes, the technicians and programmers to my right, the nurses on the other side of the window next to the MRI scanner.

  The software lived up to expectations. Simone and Anthony said it was better than they had hoped, and at first they almost forgot themselves as they tried out all the new features. The images appeared on the screen with lightning speed and were sharper than before. In addition, we could examine every pixel from numerous different angles. The programmers wanted to surprise us and had kept quiet about all the changes they had made; that’s the way they like to work, and we were used to it by now.

  I started by addressing her in Spanish. It dawned on me when I saw the look on Simone’s face that I hadn’t openly discussed this with my colleagues, although of course they should have realized that was the most sensible approach. She probably found it strange to hear me speaking that language, but soon got used to it and concentrated on the screen.

  First I asked our patient to imagine she was playing tennis, and when that didn’t work, I suggested she imagine she was walking through her house from room to room.

  “Desde la cocina al dormitorio,” I said. “Desde el dormitorio a la sala de estar . . .”

  I didn’t despair, despite her failure to respond. I could see the screen in front of Simone and Anthony; they were looking inside her brain from multiple perspectives but seemed unable to detect any change to the blood flow. My voice was calm as I read slowly from the sheet of paper, not even thinking about repeating my words in English. It wasn’t Simone who pointed this out, but one of the technicians, who nudged me and said: “Maybe she doesn’t understand.”

  I was becoming uneasy. The two programmers moved their fingers swiftly over the keyboards when they thought Simone and Anthony weren’t quick enough, but without result. Simone looked at me questioningly, a gloomy expression on her face. But I insisted we continue, and made a few more failed attempts before I eventually gave up and suggested we take a break.

  The nursing staff took the patient out of the scanner and into the next room so that we could talk freely among ourselves. We were disappointed, and Anthony went so far as to declare that there was “nothing doing.” I disagreed, saying we all knew what a Herculean task it was for patients to follow these instructions; she had barely been in the machine an hour, and we shouldn’t lose heart. He relented, but I could see the hopelessness on their faces.

  “Let’s get some fresh air,” I said. “We’ll meet back here in half an hour.”

  They didn’t stir, but I took the elevator upstairs and sat in my office. I opened the file from the hospital in New Mexico and took out the sheet of lined yellow paper upon which the young doctor had jotted down his thoughts about the patient. It had been a while since I had read them, but now I was looking to them for encouragement and hope.

  “‘I first noticed her blinking yesterday afternoon while I was examining her,’” I read. “‘It didn’t last long, and soon afterward she fell asleep. Yesterday evening, one of the nurses noticed her blink and move her eyes. I myself saw her right eye move this morning . . .’”

  I had forgotten that he hadn’t been the only one to see her eyes move, and this renewed my optimism. Perhaps I was beginning to have doubts. Not just about myself but about the young doctor as well. At any rate, it was strange that I should feel so relieved when I read about the nurse.

  I photocopied the page before returning downstairs. My colleagues hadn’t left the room, and Simone informed me that while I was away they had checked that the machines weren’t to blame; one of the nurses had lain inside the MRI scanner and her responses to the questions had shown up clearly on the screen.

  I made them gather around before we brought the patient back in, and read aloud to them from the sheet of paper. It was as if I were giving them a pep talk and justifying myself at the same time. That’s what it felt like anyway, especially when I looked at Simone.

  I tried to come across more authoritatively this time, giving clear instructions and asking my colleagues pointed questions. I could see they noticed. Perhaps now they would understand that achieving results was no less their responsibility than mine—although that hadn’t been my intention.

  We set to work and saw signs of change with the first question. Small yet unmistakable. I repeated the instruction: imagine you are
playing tennis. We waited with bated breath, but it was only after four attempts that the motor cortex lit up on the screen. A murmur went through the group, Simone leapt up, Anthony tapped away furiously on the keyboard, bringing up one angle after another, and it was the programmers’ turn to look at me as if I had taken them completely by surprise.

  Normally, I would have asked her the same question again, but at that moment I wasn’t concerned about statistics, knowing that we might lose contact with her at any moment. I wanted to discover as quickly as possible whether we could also see responses in the parahippocampal gyrus, and I asked her to imagine she was in her house walking from room to room.

  After several failed attempts, I decided to call it a day. My colleagues weren’t ready but I explained to them that the patient would be exhausted by now, and took the opportunity to discuss next steps.

  I confess that I enjoyed listening to myself speak. My voice exuded self-assurance. I hadn’t felt that confident for a long time.

  “We’ll resume tomorrow morning,” I said. “You’ve all been splendid. Thank you.”

  Later that day I told Hofsinger about the results and sent a brief e-mail to Osborne and Moreau. I erred on the side of caution in my conversation with Hofsinger, and perhaps even more so in my e-mails to the other two. Hofsinger tried to interrogate, but I was discreetly evasive. In my e-mails I said it was touch and go; I would keep them updated over the next few days. They wished us well.

  I looked in on her twice that day, but it was only when things had calmed down and most people had gone home that I went in and sat down beside her.

  It was dark now, and the silence had deepened. In the distance I could hear a train.

  I didn’t turn on the light, but took her hand instead and sat like that until the nurse came to get her ready for the night.

  “She did well,” said the nurse, addressing the patient as much as me.

  “Yes,” I said. “Really well.”

  “Do you want me to turn on the music for the night?”

  I thought about it for a moment and then nodded.

  The nurse switched on the CD player and I waited for the first notes before bidding them good night and closing the door behind me. It was only when I went to my office to fetch my jacket and briefcase that I realized I was still humming the opening bars of the Mephisto Waltzes.

  Chapter 29

  One evening, when I came home from the hospital, Madame Roullard was sitting at the kitchen table reading to Malena in French. She broke off for a moment when I walked in and greeted them, then carried on unperturbed. It was clear she didn’t appreciate my presence and had decided to ignore me. Although I couldn’t understand a word of what she read, I found her tone depressing.

  I took a long shower, and when I emerged they were still sitting at the kitchen table. Madame Roullard had stopped reading, but they saw no reason not to continue speaking in French. That was the Monday after Malena took the train up to see me and we walked down to the village. The weekend had been difficult. She had avoided me, for the most part, claiming she had to attend to her pupils, who were rehearsing for an important performance. I knew better than to challenge her. She had slept at her apartment. I had been unable to sleep more than an hour or two at a time.

  Instead, I had spent day and night analyzing and diagnosing her condition, reviewing all the signs and symptoms that I had missed, berating myself for having been blind for so long. By early Saturday I had confirmed my initial suspicion that she was suffering from MND, a disease in which the nerve cells controlling the muscles deteriorate and die. It probably shouldn’t have taken me that long, but I was desperately hoping for another explanation.

  I glanced at her questioningly when Madame Roullard couldn’t see. We had agreed to spend the evening together, and hopefully the night as well, and yet here was our neighbor comfortably installed and seemingly in no hurry to leave.

  Instead of getting up, Malena told me that Monsieur Chaumont was away on a trip and that she had invited Madame to dine with us.

  In honor of our guest, I ordered in from a local bistro. The moment we sat down, I realized with a start that I had forgotten all about Malena’s new diet, but there was nothing I could do about it now. She acted as if nothing was wrong, but ate only the rice and vegetables that accompanied the meat. It occurred to me that she might have told Madame Roullard about her illness, but when I saw her cut up the meat on her plate to make it look as if she were eating it, I realized that wasn’t the case.

  We didn’t say much, but Madame found a reason to complain about the food: the chefs at that restaurant were Mexican not French, she said, and then talked about how much she missed Paris.

  I offered to clean up after dinner, and they sat down in the living room. I was getting antsy but controlled myself. I could hear the distant sound of Madame once more declaiming poetry. Her voice was nasal and she drawled excessively.

  Finally, she took her leave. Malena showed her to the door, and when she came back, our eyes met as we stood facing each other for a moment. She let me embrace her, and yet I felt we were far apart. We sat down. I could see she was dreading our conversation, but I couldn’t stop myself.

  “We have to talk,” I said.

  She was silent.

  “Who is your doctor? What exactly has he told you?”

  She didn’t reply straightaway, but stood up and walked toward the balcony doors. It was wet outside, and when she opened them we could hear the rain on the trees in the backyard.

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” she said.

  “Malena . . .” I started to say, but she interrupted me.

  “There are many unhappy people in the world,” she said. “Madame Roullard is unhappy. Her life is difficult. I’m not unhappy.”

  I wasn’t sure how to respond to this.

  “What medication has he prescribed?”

  “I will become unhappy if I think about my illness. That’s why I don’t think about it. And you shouldn’t, either.”

  “You can’t expect me to sit here and do nothing,” I said. “I’m a doctor . . .”

  “But I’m not your patient.”

  She didn’t need to raise her voice for me to know that she wouldn’t be persuaded. I threw up my hands in despair, and was about to ask her whether she thought it was fair to put me in this position, when I stopped myself. Instead, I said:

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Love me,” she said, simply, and I instantly regretted my behavior.

  I took her in my arms and made sure she didn’t see my face until I had collected myself.

  I held her until she fell asleep. It kept on raining, and soon the reassuring murmur made it seem as if nothing was wrong.

  I think that in most respects I succeeded in behaving as she wanted the next few weeks. Occasionally I could focus on the moment and ignore those fears that gripped me day and night, especially when we weren’t together. I had consulted specialists at the hospital and collected whatever information I could about her horrible disease. I went as far as to contact a doctor in Germany who had recently published a noteworthy article in the New England Journal of Medicine and had a long conversation with him on the phone.

  But no matter how thoroughly I looked into it, or whom I consulted, the conclusion was always the same.

  I tried not to look at her as a doctor, but of course I failed. I kept a journal, noting down every change I saw in her. At first I hid it in the bookshelves in the living room, but then I started to worry that she might come across it, so I took it with me to the hospital and kept it there.

  She deteriorated, no more quickly or slowly than I had expected, but steadily. The disease affected the limbs, but not the muscles in the neck and mouth, so she never had difficulty talking and swallowing. She became prone to dropping things, and her legs gave way more often than before. Some days were worse than others, and then she would stay away from me.

  At times I would forget myself and say
something she didn’t like. It didn’t take much. She would bridle if I so much as hinted that she wasn’t well. But most of the time I was careful and managed to concentrate on enjoying my time with her.

  One day when I got home from the hospital she was waiting for me in the living room. I hadn’t expected her and was surprised. She wore a skirt, had her hair in a chignon, and was wearing the necklace I had given her for Christmas. She was so beautiful that I was speechless.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked.

  It was difficult to imagine that she wasn’t perfectly fine. Her smile lit up the living room, radiating a carefree joie de vivre. When she walked over to me, her steps were so light she seemed to glide across the floor.

  “Is something wrong?”

  No, nothing was wrong. At that moment nothing stood in the way of our happiness, and the shadows encircling us were so far away it seemed they would never return.

  She said she wanted to take me out to dinner. She had a mischievous look in her eye, and when I asked where, she said that I would soon find out. I changed my clothes, put on a clean shirt and a light sweater, and splashed some aftershave on my face. We drove in a cab through the dusk. She asked me to block my ears when she gave the driver our destination.

  I didn’t realize where we were heading until we turned down a side street near Juilliard and stopped at the little restaurant with the red awning. It dawned on me that we hadn’t been back there since our first date. She smiled at me and I smiled back, and said:

  “Just imagine, it was only eighteen months ago.”

  That was all I said, but instantly the smiles vanished from our lips, and I reflected about how dull my life had been before I met her, and how I feared it would become like that once more, and perhaps she was thinking along those lines, too. Then we pulled ourselves together, she first, and I gave a bigger smile than before, opened the door, and said: “Après toi.”

  As we sat down, the waiter brought the menus and filled our glasses with water.